


like rain, like music (비처럼 음악처럼)

by celestialuhan (sansas)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Culinary Enthusiast!Joonmyun, M/M, Starving Artist!Baekhyun, anyway stan subaeksus, this will probably have smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7646863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansas/pseuds/celestialuhan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ ON HIATUS ] Baekhyun had never imagined he would find a masterpiece under an embarrassingly pink umbrella.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like rain, like music (비처럼 음악처럼)

There are three things Byun Baekhyun hates: rude customers, overtime, and the rain.

Most days, whatever deity might or might not exist only ever gives him one of these things at a time; he doesn't deal too well with stress, anyway, and the probability of all three things coinciding in one shitstorm of an instance is so mathematically small that he doesn't even consider it to be anything near possible in the next fifty years of his life. Sixty, if he stops eating instant noodles for dinner every night, but losers can't be choosers.

Today, though, is a day where Jesus or Buddha or Confucius or _whoever_ else (possibly, all of the above) is testing his absolute limits.

It's with a sour face too quickly forced into a smile that he finishes the last fifteen minutes of his shift, checking out nearly-expired bread and packets of one-use soy sauce while trying to not give a bunch of middle school kids the stink eye for giggling about almost pushing over an entire rack of snacks that he would have had to clean up at the end of his extended hours.

Really, he can barely swallow the normal work hours here, but a shattered window won't pay for its own replacement – never mind that he had only been innocently checking the bar code scanner's faulty double-reads when a fight had broken out just outside the convenience store, effectively resulting in two bloodied noses, a body flying through the front window, and Baekhyun yelling so loudly at the impact, the airborne guy smashing into the generic isopropyl alcohol stand, and the aftermath, that he'd probably blown away the rest of the glass anyway.

He'd tried to explain that he'd had nothing to do with it, but the owner had insisted that it was _his_ job to keep the store safe since _he_ was on duty, basically implying that, to avoid having to pay off these dues on top of his basic required shift, he was supposed to have come between them and offered himself as an alternative punching bag. Since he hadn't – well, there is no question now why he is watching the sky bomb dive into a dull, grey-ish blue wondering why, of all the moods he has to be in, he has to feel the same kind of dead, ugly numbness that is mirrored in an atmosphere just about to cannonball into a thunderstorm.

“Hey!” he snaps, finally reaching the threshold of his patience at that one beady-eyed asshat of a kid that threatens to ruin the hope he has of leaving his extended shift on time by shaking the entire metal rack of instant ramyun, four packs tumbling from the top shelf and dropping to the floor. Crackling plastic and choked giggles pepper the stiff air of the convenience store, and Baekhyun is suddenly slipping away from behind the register, his eyes widening as he moves, too slow for his intentions, towards the irresponsible tyrannosaurus rex herd of children, who are currently in the act of pushing each other and stomping around the instant noodles aisle so roughly that he is sure this has become the epicenter of a mild earthquake.

Something like a choked pterodactyl screech – a sound he, admittedly, knows he can create, but does not, unless it is an absolute emergency – leaves his lips as he surges forward, flapping his hands so hard he's surprised he hasn't somehow lifted himself two feet into the air. He only has one goal in mind: save the ramyun. Hands fly, and he yells out an incomprehensible string of syllables as he swats three pairs of dirty tennis shoes away from the items, picking them all up in one clean sweep.

Baekhyun is cursed with a young face that doesn't know a lot of emotions; it's a disconnect between his heart and mind, he's sure. Only two feelings ever properly register: the impish happiness that he, as an urban poor sort-of adult rarely feels these days, and the sadness that, exclusive of his parents, only two other people have ever witnessed from him. His annoyance translates more as a nervous tic, just under his left eye, and his thin lips only ever curl into a soft wave that looks more like he's about to hold back a laugh than anything else. The livid feeling that burns just under his left ribcage is watered down by his expression, and he's sure the fact that he is clutching four packs of dry noodles close to his chest like it's whispered the purpose of his life to him doesn't help the point he wants to make.

“For the love of God,” he breathes out. “Will you please just buy your candy bars and size-small condoms and _leave_? I have had it up to _here_ (he indicates a space above his head; Baekhyun is too short to make his point as threatening as he wants it to be) with checking out loaf after loaf of whole wheat bread and I don't need you to remind me that I don't get paid as much as I should for dealing with this _bullshit._ ”

The pregnant pause that follows is punctuated by a snort from the kid who had started it all. The “okay, _ahjussi,_ ” that he snorts out is one of the better proofs that no one can take his anger seriously. It's with narrowed eyes (well, they _should_ be narrowed, but his eyes are too small for that, anyway) and four packets of ramyun pressed against his upper torso that he watches the students file out, still snickering, into the slowly strengthening rain. A smug smile makes its way onto his face for a quick second as he notes that they have nothing but their expensive (but ugly) backpacks to shield them from the downpour.

His happiness, however, is short-lived when he realizes that he, too, has nothing but his own backpack to serve as his only way through the rain; it's ugly, but not at all expensive, and he wonders if he can make the fifteen minute walk home without somehow being forced to evolve into a water pokemon. It isn't like he can ask anyone for a favor either; even if he had the confidence to do that, there is no one left in the store. The movements he makes to replace the precious ramyun are deliberately slow, as if he hopes the rain will stop by the time he's re-arranged all the packs into place. Baekhyun isn't a meticulous person unless he wants to get paid for the full hour.

The next twenty minutes pass in as much silence as he can take without engaging himself in a full conversation, and he's sitting on the counter right next to the cash register, swinging his legs and humming the jingle for a dishwasher soap advertisement, when Jongdae pushes his way through the door, dripping wet and already in the middle of complaining before he's completely inside the store.

“-- told me not to come into work because it's been raining so hard and I said, _mom, I made a commitment and someone needs to take the shif_ _t_ , and she said, _you only ever use that money for_ _comic books_ , as if that's the only thing I need in my life –”

“Will you look at where you're stepping?” Baekhyun yells over the extremely expired story of how Jongdae denies the fact that his salary has been thrown at every issue of Iron Man he can gets his hands on. “I literally just cleaned the place.”

“Sorry.” Jongdae looks around at the puddle under his feet, and then back up at Baekhyun, before assessing his extremely comfortable position atop the counter. “Did you seriously just clean this place?”

“No,” Baekhyun responds, without skipping a beat. “I just wanted you to be quiet.”

The ripple of thunder that shakes through the store thankfully masks the ugly swear word that Jongdae hurls at him; Baekhyun sees his co-worker's mouth move, and his own curls up into a sardonic smile.

“Thanks; I was just about to go home and do it myself,” he says, slipping off the counter, handing the keys to the register to Jongdae. “Do you have an extra umbrella?”

“No. Who carries around an extra umbrella?”

No one, obviously; Baekhyun doesn't even carry around a primary umbrella, let alone one to spare. He believes in the miraculous power of hoodies and store canopy hopping, and, more often than not, this works. However, the storm today has rain coming down in solid, diagonal lines, the wind pushing at the water that's gathered on the streets.

“You can just wait it out,” Jongdae suggests. “Or buy a cheap umbrella from here.”

“With what money?” Baekhyun asks bitterly. “The one that's in Old Man Park's pocket for that window I didn't break? Anyway, if I stay, you'll just make me do all the work while you jack off to Iron Man comics in the staff room.”

The other has no response, and Baekhyun ends the conversation with a disbelieving laugh that doesn't resonate in his chest as much as it does in the bridge of his nose. He gathers his jacket and backpack from the staff room, slinging both over his back, and leaves Jongdae to warily clean out the used newspaper coupons Baekhyun had shoved into the drawer originally intended for loose change.

Rain in the city smells different from rain in the country, and Baekhyun knows the difference, having noted the contrasting points during his first thunderstorm in Seoul. Back then, he had envisioned, for himself, a rags to riches story that only seemed possible in a more urban setting, leaving his Wonmi-gu life behind to seek better opportunities. Back then, all he had ever wanted to do was leave the uncultured prison of a province to seek better peers that appreciated art as much as he did.

It wasn't even like he hadn't been warned; his parents, his older brother, his grandmother had all asked him to stay home, where life was safe and comfortable; where people could say _hello, how are you_ and _I'm fine,_ and somehow really mean it; where a mediocre restaurant in a small town could easily be his to manage if he wanted it. That wasn't really his style, though; Baekhyun very quickly learned that there was nothing aesthetically pleasing about grilling meat on a graying metal pan, with an eggshell-white plastic bowl to catch the oil dripping out of a rusty tube.

So, he left it all behind. At that time, he had been _itching,_ practically; sleepless nights were spent crafting one vivid soap bubble after another of dreams of Seoul, an even bigger city he had heard had all types of people, including people like him, who preferred the position of being a starving artist than a rich but unhappy restaurant owner.

If there is one word that encompasses a soap bubble, though, it is the adjective _fragile,_ and, when the rain hits, it dissolves right before your eyes. When Baekhyun came to the city, it didn't take long for him to find out he could only fill out the _s_ _tarving_ half of the occupation he'd applied for. The artist is somewhere in his closet, hidden behind washed out jeans and sweaters with little holes at the elbow from when he snags them on the protruding nails of the convenience store's shelves. Baekhyun never takes that part of himself out anymore, not even when it's the weekend; he prefers to criticize the unrealistic nature of American pornography on those precious few days.

It hasn't been too hot in the past few days, but there's still the distinctive heat rising from the pavement, and it hits his face the moment he steps out of the convenience store, the bell overhead giving out a dull tinkle to signal his exit. Back in Bucheon, rain smells a little more like new grass and mud. In Seoul, it's the scent of slow-roasted concrete and car exhaust that stings his nose; he scrunches his features up as he shoves his arms through the sleeves of his hoodie. Maybe he'll never get used to the smell.

The rain is coming down harder now, creating a sheet of white that obscures his vision; all he can focus on clearly is the water that collect along the edges of the convenience store's awning, sliding together to make even bigger droplets before crashing around his rubber shoes. There's almost no one immediately around him anymore, save Jongdae, somewhere behind him in the comfort of the store; a lone figure standing next to him under the same canopy, humming to the erratic beat of the rain; and more dim-witted high school kids, pushing each other across the pavement as the run to escape the rain, as if doing this is going to make them less likely to get into an accident.

There's nothing for it, really; with the way things are, the rain won't let up for at least another hour, and he wants to get home before Kyungsoo can stop him from watching the after-school cartoon marathons by flipping to the evening news. With a resolute sigh, Baekhyun steels himself, grits his teeth, and marches forward into the rain.

He might have gotten far, too, if not for the fact that his hoodie isn't cooperating with him, hooked onto something that causes the front of his jacket to ride up and choke him into a strangled yelp; he reels back, the first and only bit of wetness that had splashed against his fringe rolling into his eyes.

He thinks its Jongdae, but he catches the worker's silhouette walking aimlessly between the aisles, probably looking for a way to nick an energy drink without the CCTV catching him (or, at least, that's what Baekhyun would be doing, anyway). It's not Jongdae's voice that insults him, either; he knows that Jongdae doesn't have excellent control of his vocal modulation, and the softest he can go is probably close to the level at which Baekhyun would shout.

No; the “ _you idiot,_ ” that sounds out from behind him is nothing _close_ to what he imagined. If Jongdae's voice is a cannonball in a lake, this voice is the sea breeze; it's cool, steady, and almost like a recording, despite being mildly amused in the way it addresses him. It's accompanied by the weak patter of feet, coming closer, until Baekhyun can breathe again, and the hand that had used his hood as leverage to stop him is suddenly on his shoulder, unfamiliar and warm.

Baekhyun expects that he has to look up, but, when he turns to the interloper, he finds that the tips of their noses align almost perfectly. The symmetry at the edge of his vision is slightly alarming and causes some small, inexplicable discomfort to bloom within him.

He wants to say something – anything, really, like a really obnoxious _so do you just like to choke people in your free time_ _?_ _,_ or a more standard _what do you want_?, but nothing from the forefront of his mind makes its way to his tongue, and he just stands there, the tips of his fucked up rubber shoes spattered by the rain. He's lucky, then, that the other person does most of the talking by carrying on with a “you're going to walk without an umbrella in this weather? You're crazy.” It's a statement, not a question, but the lack of a truly condescending tone is what makes Baekhyun permit it to fly under his radar.

Baekhyun watches this guy fish through the pocket of his coat intently (it's really a _coat,_ not in the shitty polyester material that makes people look like they cut up all the upholstery available to them, but in the pliant, soft, but heavy material that often smells like a newly opened boutique), until his eyes manage to catch a glimpse of bright pink and, suddenly, Baekhyun doesn't want to look at anything but his shoes anymore.

The umbrella the guy produces isn't muted or standard in its design; the hood is solid, almost opaque – an embarrassingly, obnoxiously loud _pink_ , the color of Baekhyun's little sister's ballerina get-up (he has refused and will continue to adamantly refuse calling it what it is), as if the skirt itself has been stretched over the metal frame that springs to life at the push of a button. An automatic umbrella – Baekhyun isn't sure what he had been expecting, but he isn't as fazed by the way it shoots up more than he is by the color that it spreads out.

Pink Umbrella Guy is supremely unperturbed; he gives Baekhyun a sort of patronizing smile that makes the latter feel like he's done something wrong.

Baekhyun also notices that Pink Umbrella Guy's cheekbones push so far up that his irises disappear, eyes quickly morphing into dark, upside-down crescents, but he doesn't make a comment about that, either.

The guy gives his umbrella a little shake, as if the thing is impatient for him, and Baekhyun stares at him, looks up at the ballerina pink roof, and back at the guy, ending with a hesitant expression that he manages to voice out.

“ _Really_?” is all he can say, despite all his mentally articulate observations and options.

Pink Umbrella Guy's eyes turn into actual slits as his smile widens. “It's this, or a bad fever.”

“I don't usually walk home with strangers,” Baekhyun replies flatly.

“Neither do I.”

A pause. The excess water from the gutter pipe overflows and crashes down onto the canopy. Inside, Jongdae knocks over the counter stand for all the gachas with fake pokemon toys in them.

Baekhyun doesn't even give a complete sound of hesitant assent before he finds himself pulled under the shield of ballerina pink, and, five minutes later, he half-walking, half-being dragged by the elbow, through the rain, as if Pink Umbrella Guy knows exactly where he lives. It crosses his mind that he might as well consider himself kidnapped, except he doesn't have in his wallet but a couple of old receipts and an old stick of double mint gum, and the man in the coat next to him hasn't asked him for whatever he might have, anyway.

They don't talk much; despite the grip Pink Umbrella Guy has on his arm, Baekhyun realizes he's allowed to steer, and he walks the familiar route back to his building, his legs so accustomed to each little slope and small pothole that his mind (and eyes) can take the time to steal glances at who he has now begrudgingly identified as his savior.

From the features he can make out in the dark, Baekhyun can tell that Pink Umbrella Guy's face does not suit the height he has been cursed with. It's smooth, almost like a wax figure's, with prominently round cheekbones the high angle of his nose catching the most of the umbrella's pink highlight. The lips that are pressed into a concentrated line look unimaginably, irritatingly soft; they're the kind of lips only attractive people are born to have – the kind that people who are born to be kissed and loved possess.

Actually, Baekhyun isn't sure he's ever seen anyone that pretty, but _whatever._

The bottom third of his jeans are soaked now, and Baekhyun, for whatever reason, starts to slow down. He wants to talk, but the rain is too loud, and Pink Umbrella Guy looks like he's really trying to concentrate on keeping them both under the umbrella, and Baekhyun doesn't really have anything nice or interesting to say, anyway.

When they're ten feet away from the building, Baekhyun starts to move away – he predicts a scenario in which he says a quick _thank you_ before pulling his hood over his head and running the rest of the distance to the entrance – but this guy's grip is so secure that he finds it close to impossible. Pink Umbrella Guy is _strong_ – stronger than he looks, much stronger than the softness of his cheeks and lips, surprisingly. He makes it all the way to the main door of the building without letting go, and, when he does, Baekhyun feels his blood rushing back through his arm, and there's a numbness under his skin that makes him feel just a little empty.

Baekhyun turns to Pink Umbrella Guy as he shakes out the excess water that has collected on the umbrella; he thinks it's only polite to invite the guy for a hot mug of tea, but they don't know each other well, and Kyungsoo must be home watching the news, either way. He only manages out a lame version of what he's been trying to say since they left the convenience store.

“Thanks – I mean, uh, thank you. I guess.”

“You guess?” Pink Umbrella Guy laughs; its a laugh that suits his voice and face – big teeth, wide mouth, and so much air coming out under the _ha ha ha_ that he sounds like he's suffering. It's nice, Baekhyun thinks. It fits him and his dopey pink umbrella.

“Sorry. I mean it, though.”

“You're welcome,” Pink Umbrella Guy sobers down, but there's still the ghost of amusement on his soft lips. “I guess.”

Baekhyun doesn't know what else there is to say; formalities are over, and he should go inside, but he's rooted to the spot. He wants to ask for Pink Umbrella Guy's name, but he's not sure it's worth it, and he's not sure if he'll get an answer, anyway.

“So, now you know where I live.”

“Yeah. Is that a bad thing?” He's genuinely curious, Baekhyun notes.

“For you? No. For me? A stranger, knowing where I live...”

“I won't do anything about it,” Pink Umbrella Guy pauses, turning towards the rain and bringing his trusty shield up again, the stem resting on his shoulder. Baekhyun notices that the entire side he hadn't been pressed against is soaked, the cool blue-grayness of the coat black with the water it's absorbed. “I don't like harassing people after I've helped them. Seems kind of dumb.”

Baekhyun has nothing to say; in retrospect, he thinks he should have just gone in after his half-hearted _thank you._ It's a good thing Pink Umbrella Guy doesn't seem to expect an answer to a question he never asked.

“Anyway,” he goes on. “Even if I did want to bother you, I wouldn't do it right in front of your shitty apartment. That just seems a little too cruel.”

Before Baekhyun can digest this comment, Pink Umbrella Guy has gathered himself together, one hand closing the front of his coat, and walked out into the rain again. Over his shoulder, he calls out a _have a nice night!_ that's too bright for the current weather _,_ even though Baekhyun doesn't (can't seem to?) respond.

All Baekhyun can really do, now, is wonder how the last twenty minutes had come to pass, and how this precious span of time had suddenly ended with him and his damp back pressed against the glass of the building's front door, his befuddled eyes trailing a small dome of ballerina get-up pink bobbing through the dark rain, shrinking in his vision until it completely disappears. 

**Author's Note:**

> 3908 words. Winding. Cruel. Confusing. A Film By M. Night Shyamalan.


End file.
